The Wandering Jew — Complete
"You love him, then, just as he loves you!" exclaimed M. de Montbron,
transported with joy.
"Love him!" said Mdlle. de Cardoville. A discreet knock at the door
interrupted Adrienne.
"One of your servants, no doubt. Be calm," said the count.
"Come in," said Adrienne, in an agitated voice.
"What is it?" said Mdlle. de Cardoville. Florine entered the room.
"M. Rodin has just been here. Fearing to disturb mademoiselle, he would
not come in; but he will return in half an hour. Will mademoiselle
receive him?"
"Yes, yes," said the count to Florine; "even if I am still here, show
him in by all means. Is not that your opinion?" asked M. de Montbron of
Adrienne.
"Quite so," answered the young girl; and a flash of indignation darted
from her eyes, as she thought of Rodin's perfidy.
"Oho! the old knave!" said M. de Montbron, "I always had my doubts
of that crooked neck!" Florine withdrew, leaving the count with her
mistress.
CHAPTER IX. LOVE.
Mdlle. de Cardoville was transfigured. For the first time her beauty
shone forth in all its lustre. Until now overshadowed by indifference,
or darkened by grief, she appeared suddenly illumined by a brilliant ray
of sunshine. The slight irritation caused by Rodin's perfidy passed like
an imperceptible shade from her brow. What cared she now for falsehood
and perfidy? Had they not failed? And, for the future, what human power
could interpose between her and Djalma, so sure of each other? Who would
dare to cross the path of those two things, resolute and strong with the
irresistible power of youth, love, and liberty? Who would dare to follow
them into that blazing sphere, whither they went, so beautiful and
happy, to blend together in their inextinguishable love, protected by
the proof armor of their own happiness? Hardly had Florine left the
room, when Adrienne approached M. de Montbron with a rapid step.
She seemed to have become taller; and to watch her advancing, light,
radiant, and triumphant, one might have fancied her a goddess walking
upon clouds.
"When shall I see him?" was her first word to M. de Montbron.
"Well--say to-morrow; he must be prepared for so much happiness; in so
ardent a nature, such sudden, unexpected joy might be terrible."
Adrienne remained pensive for a moment, and then said rapidly: "To
morrow--yes--not before to-morrow. I have a superstition of the heart."
"What is it?"
"You shall know. HE LOVES ME--that word says all, contains all,
comprehends all, is all--and yet I have a thousand questions to ask
with regard to him--but I will ask none before to-morrow, because, by a
mysterious fatality, to-morrow is with me a sacred anniversary. It will
be an age till then; but happily, I can wait. Look here!"
Beckoning M. de Montbron, she led him to the Indian Bacchus. "How much
it is like him!" said she to the count.
"Indeed," exclaimed the latter, "it is strange!"
"Strange?" returned Adrienne, with a smile of gentle pride; "strange,
that a hero, a demi-god, an ideal of beauty, should resemble Djalma?"
"How you love him!" said M. de Montbron, deeply touched, and almost
dazzled by the felicity which beamed from the countenance of Adrienne.
"I must have suffered a good deal, do you not think so?" said she, after
a moment's silence.
"If I had not made up my mind to come here to-day, almost in despair,
what would have happened?"
"I cannot tell; I should perhaps have died, for I am wounded mortally
here"--she pressed her hand to her heart. "But what might have been
death to me, will now be life."
"It was horrible," said the count, shuddering. "Such a passion, buried
in your own breast, proud as you are--"
"Yes, proud--but not self-conceited. When I learned his love for
another, and that the impression which I fancied I had made on him at
our first interview had been immediately effaced, I renounced all hope,
without being able to renounce my love. Instead of shunning his image,
I surrounded myself with all that could remind me of him. In default
of happiness, there is a bitter pleasure in suffering through what we
love."
"I can now understand your Indian library."
Instead of answering the count, Adrienne took from the stand one of the
freshly-cut volumes, and, bringing it to M. de Montbron, said to him,
with a smile and a celestial expression of joy and happiness: "I was
wrong--I am vain. Just read this--aloud, if you please. I tell you that
I can wait for to-morrow." Presenting the book to the count, she pointed
out one passage with the tip of her charming finger. Then she sank down
upon the couch, and, in an attitude of deep attention, with her body
bent forward, her hands crossed upon the cushion, her chin resting upon
her hands, her large eyes fixed with a sort of adoration on the Indian
Bacchus, that was just opposite to her, she appeared by this impassioned
contemplation to prepare herself to listen to M. de Montbron.
The latter, much astonished, began to read, after again looking at
Adrienne, who said to him, in her most coaxing voice, "Very slowly, I
beg of you."
M. de Montbron then read the following passage from the journal of a
traveller in India: "'When I was at Bombay, in 1829, I constantly heard
amongst the English there, of a young hero, the son of--'"
The count having paused a second, by reason of the barbarous spelling
of the name of Djalma's father, Adrienne immediately said to him, in her
soft voice: "The son of Kadja-sing."
"What a memory!" said the count, with a smile. And he resumed: "'A young
hero, the son of Kadja-sing, king of Mundi. On his return from a distant
and sanguinary expedition amongst the mountains against this Indian
king, Colonel Drake was filled with enthusiasm for this son of
Kadja-sing, known as Djalma. Hardly beyond the age of childhood, this
young prince has in the course of this implacable war given proofs
of such chivalrous intrepidity, and of so noble a character, that his
father has been surnamed the Father of the Generous.'"
"That is a touching custom," said the count. "To recompense the father,
as it were, by giving him a surname in honor of his son, is a great
idea. But how strange you should have met with this book!" added the
count, in surprise. "I can understand; there is matter here to inflame
the coolest head."
"Oh! you will see, you will see," said Adrienne.
The count continued to read: "'Colonel Drake, one of the bravest and
best officers of the English army, said yesterday, in my presence, that
having been dangerously wounded, and taken prisoner by Prince Djalma,
after an energetic resistance, he had been conveyed to the camp
established in the village of--"
Here there was the same hesitation on the part of the count, on seeing
a still more barbarous name than the first; so, not wishing to try the
adventure, he paused, and said to Adrienne, "Now really, I give this
up."
"And yet it is so easy!" replied Adrienne; and she pronounced with
inexpressible softness, a name in itself soft, "The village of
Shumshabad."
"You appear to have an infallible process for remembering geographical
names," said the count, continuing: "'Once arrived at the camp, Colonel
Drake received the kindest hospitality, and Prince Djalma treated
him with the respect of a son. It was there that the colonel became
acquainted with some facts, which carried to the highest pitch his
enthusiasm for prince Djalma. I heard him relate the two following.
"'In one of the battles, the prince was accompanied by a young Indian of
about twelve years of age, whom he loved tenderly, and who served him
as a page, following him on horseback to carry his spare weapons.
This child was idolized by its mother; just as they set out on the
expedition, she had entrusted her son to Prince Djalma's care, saying,
with a stoicism worthy of antiquity, "Let him be your brother." "He
shall be my brother," had replied the prince. In the height of a
disastrous defeat, the child is severely wounded, and his horse killed;
the prince, at peril of his life, notwithstanding the perception of a
forced retreat, disengages him, and places him on the croup of his own
horse; they are pursued; a musket-ball strikes their steed, who is just
able to reach a jungle, in the midst of which, after some vain efforts,
he falls exhausted. The child is unable to walk, but the prince carries
him in his arms, and hides with him in the thickest part of the jungle.
The English arrive, and begin their search; but the two victims escape.
After a night and a day of marches, counter-marches, stratagems,
fatigues, unheard-of perils, the prince, still, carrying the child, one
of whose legs is broken, arrives at his father's camp, and says, with
the utmost simplicity, "I had promised his mother that I would act a
brother's part by him--and I have done so."'
"That is admirable!" cried the count.
"Go on--pray go on!" said Adrienne, drying a tear, without removing
her eyes from the bas-relief, which she continued to contemplate with
growing adoration.
The count continued: "'Another time, Prince Djalma, followed by two
black slaves, went, before sunrise, to a very wild spot, to seize a
couple of tiger cubs only a few days old. The den had been previously
discovered. The two old tigers were still abroad. One of the blacks
entered the den by a narrow aperture; the other, aided by Djalma,
cut down a tolerably large tree, to prepare a trap for one of the old
tigers. On the side of the aperture, the cavern was exceedingly steep.
The prince mounted to the top of it with agility, to set his trap, with
the aid of the other black. Suddenly, a dreadful roar was heard; and, in
a few bounds, the tigress, returning from the chase, reached the opening
of the den. The black who was laying the trap with the prince had his
skull fractured by her bite; the tree, falling across the entrance,
prevented the female from penetrating the cavern, and at the same time
stopped the exit of the black who had seized the cubs.
"'About twenty feet higher, upon a ledge of rock, the prince lay flat
on the ground, looking down upon this frightful spectacle. The tigress,
rendered furious by the cries of her little ones, gnawed the hands of
the black, who, from the interior of the den, strove to support
the trunk of the tree, his only rampart, whilst he uttered the most
lamentable outcries.'
"It is horrible!" said the count.
"Oh! go on! pray go on!" exclaimed Adrienne, with excitement; "you will
see what can be achieved by the heroism of goodness."
The count pursued: "'Suddenly the prince seized his dagger between his
teeth, fastened his sash to a block of stone, took his axe in one hand,
and with the other slid down this substitute for a rope; falling a few
steps from the wild beast, he sprang upon her, and, swift as lightning,
dealt her two mortal strokes, just as the black, losing his strength,
was about to drop the trunk of the tree, sure to have been torn to
pieces.'"
"And you are astonished at his resemblance with the demi-god, to whom
fable itself ascribes no more generous devotion!" cried the young lady,
with still increasing excitement.
"I am astonished no longer, I only admire," said the count, in a voice
of emotion; "and, at these two noble instances of heroism, my heart
beats with enthusiasm, as if I were still twenty."
"And the noble heart of this traveller beat like yours at the recital,"
said Adrienne; "you will see."
"'What renders so admirable the intrepidity of the prince, is, that,
according to the principle of Indian castes, the life of a slave is of
no importance; thus a king's son, risking his life for the safety of
a poor creature, so generally despised, obeyed an heroic and truly
Christian instinct of charity, until then unheard of in this country."